


Merry Christmas, Elliott

by avianbrother



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:00:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21987787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avianbrother/pseuds/avianbrother
Summary: Another holiday and his brothers--his best friends--were dead and his mom was a world away. But he's Mirage, he'll be okay, right?
Comments: 5
Kudos: 36





	Merry Christmas, Elliott

**Author's Note:**

> I know this a couple days late but here, have some feels

Mirage hated Christmas. Well, not exactly. He liked the decorations, the general feeling of niceness and comfort, the carols and music and all that good, homey stuff. He didn’t hate the _idea_ of Christmas either, the gift-giving and spending time with each other. Nah, that was fine and dandy. He hated… _fuck_ , he hated Christmas without _them_.

He’d put together this Christmas event in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, the lights and the spectacle would distract from the aching pit in his chest because his brothers were gone— _gone gone gone_ —and he was gonna spend another Christmas alone without his best (sometimes his only) friends in the entire galaxy. But it didn’t. Instead he was here in this—nice but entirely too soulless and empty and too fucking perfect—penthouse, drinking whiskey and staring at the projection of a yule log on his TV screen.

Calling mom had been…not great. It felt good to hear her voice, to know that she was still alive and deep down still loved him ~~hopefully~~. When she thought he was one of his brothers…yeah, that…that wasn’t so good. Ajay gave him a list of docs who could help, said it would be expensive, but what was the point of being the richest man in the galaxy if he couldn’t help his own mother? The offices would be closed for the holidays, they probably wouldn’t get back to him til after New Year’s, but he kicked the requests to them anyway. He’d dropped a pot of money to one of those research charities too, anonymously. He could pass it off as him being the big charitable guy ‘cause, hey, it’s Christmas!, but the fans and eyes he knew were watching from the shadows would know something was up, would start asking questions that were still raw.

Mirage sighed, finished his glass, and then poured another. The cinnamon flavor burned pleasantly, the alcohol forcing him to relax a little bit.

Trying to find a gift for mom had been a disaster. He’d thought about getting her something nice, something fancy like a new dress or jewelry—because that’s what rich guys got people, right?—but he was reminded all too clearly of those years when money was tight and she’d told all of them that _they_ were her Christmas presents, and she was just happy to have them around and… _fuck_.

He scrubbed his face, taking a too big gulp of whiskey to fight the lump in his throat.

The thought of making a moving hologram of the family came to mind. A little one, that she could keep on her desk, that would show them laughing and hugging together like in that book series he read where the magic photos moved on their own. He rubbed his temple, brows scrunched in thought. It wouldn’t be difficult, technically speaking. His own holograms were far more complicated to program, and he’d experimented with scaling down the tech before. The real hang-up was the fact that mom had all the family photos. He loved his brothers but looking at pictures always reminded him that they weren’t around anymore. And he was still baby-faced and young in every picture, because there hadn’t been opportunities to get pictures together once his brothers went off to “fight the good fight.”

There was another option, though. Mirage pulled out his phone and the video he’d saved. It was a video of the two of them, taken when he was helping her tweak the holo-tech and her memory was good that day. She was smiling, _actually smiling_ , at the camera with him, kissing his cheek in the way moms do while he stooped over—had he always been that tall?—to wrap an arm around her. It was recent enough that his appearance hadn’t changed much, that she’d be able to recognize him as the guy standing next to her.

Fuck it. He hadn’t found a gift yet and still had a few days before the mailing deadline (and even then, he could spare the extra cash to expedite it).

Focusing on work, on the wires and soldering tools in his hands, was calming. He barely ate over the next several days, only sporadically leaving his worktable when his stomach couldn’t be ignored. He’d done worse before; at least his hands weren’t shaking.

He ran through the sequence ten, twenty, too many times to count to make sure it was perfect and wouldn’t freeze or glitch out anywhere, turning it 360 to check every angle. The sound was crisp, not a single warble or static. It was bigger than a snow globe, large enough that she could still make out details if her eyesight started to go bad. When he was finally certain it was as perfect as he could get it, he packed it away.

One thing he’d learned from the PR guys is that people love handwritten notes. A stack of elegant stationary and a fancy, shimmery ink pen sat beside his desk, used less frequently than he liked because he often forgot he had it.

_Hey, how’s my favorite woman in the-_

No. He immediately scribbled out the words, shoving the sheet aside and grabbing a blank one.

_Dear Mom,_

No, not that. He crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it over his shoulder. Okay, breathe, he thought to himself. Inhale. Exhale. His hand shook and he closed his eyes for a moment, repeating the breathe in, breathe out exercise. He opened his eyes, looked at the blank sheet in front of him.

_I love you, Mom. I miss you more than anything. It’s not the same as being there, drinking hot cocoa and watching those Christmas specials you like, but hopefully it’ll keep you company and_

He paused, biting his lip and squeezing the pen hard enough to snap. Inhale. Exhale.

_remind you of the good times we’ve spent together._

_Merry Christmas,  
Elliott_

He didn’t spare it another glance, simply folded it and put it in the envelop because if he looked any longer the tears would start falling and smudge the metallic gold ink. Mirage carefully put it on top of the holo-projector and sealed the box.

The guys at the postal depot knew him well, nodded when he dropped off the package that he slapped with a dozen FRAGILE stickers. They knew by now not to mishandle his stuff, but he still slid them a nice tip and asked they take care of it.

***

It was Christmas, and Mirage was alone in his too empty penthouse, watching Christmas specials. The Miser Brothers had just been summoned by Mother Nature, and he felt a stab of loneliness that he drowned with eggnog.

His cellphone rang.

Mirage frowned, checking who the hell was calling and disrupting his depressed stupor. Elliott saw the name and answered faster than he had in his life.

“Hey Ma, wh-what’s up? You got the present I sent? Y-yeah, I made it—which—oh, I’m watching the same one right now. How are you doing? I’m…good, I’m real good, now.”


End file.
